


River Jordan (Highway 34)

by Alyndra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BAMF Sam & Dean, Dean Winchester is So Done, Episode: s12e09 First Blood, Fic with a Playlist, Gen, Law Enforcement Pursuing the Winchesters (Supernatural), POV Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester is weary down to his bones, Season/Series 12 Spoilers, Supernatural Summergen Exchange 2019, canonical violence, down a long and lonesome road tonight, suicidal themes (barely over canon-typical)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyndra/pseuds/Alyndra
Summary: Sam and Dean, on the run through the wilderness fornotkilling the President. But the road has a toll to pay. Which brother is bound for the promised Empty?A closer look at how they expected the events of the episode, and their deal, to go.
Relationships: Death & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Sam & Dean
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36
Collections: Supernatural Summergen 2019





	River Jordan (Highway 34)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardustdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustdean/gifts).



> Prompts: _Sam & Dean & law enforcement, literally anything on the topic,_ with inspiration pulled from _Dean’s got plenty Purgatory experience and shows Sam all the ropes of navigating a rough world_ and _One Last Case...aging Winchesters who are still so damn fond of each other._ Hope this is gritty and angsty enough for you, Sweetheartdean!
> 
> Such enormous thanks to my betas, [road_rhythm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/road_rhythm/pseuds/road_rhythm) and [nwspaprtaxis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis), who gently shepherded this through the many stages of my not knowing what I was trying to write about, I shudder to think what would have happened without you. Probably chaos. ♥ ♥ And thanks Summergen mods for going above and beyond once again!
> 
> [Original post](https://spn-summergen.livejournal.com/321644.html) on LJ; handy little playlist of [appropriately road-weary classics.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLTC-cXHN4fWdLtkC936DV41X-bZF_V3EB)

Sam and Dean rose from the dead in the morgue midmorning. Noon found them ten miles north from the oppressive concrete walls that had been their jail for six excruciating weeks. Colorado, their map said, and the mountains confirmed. They hurried through Rocky Mountain National Park, shifting from run to walk and back again through the trees. 

Soldiers from the Secret Service’s quiet base would be after them like hellhounds; if they hadn’t already been missed from the morgue, it couldn’t be much longer. 

“Don’t worry, Sammy, we’ll run rings around them,” Dean said lightly. Too lightly. There was anger buried deep and hard there, coiled tight. 

Sam huffed, running in Dean’s footsteps. They’d had nothing but pushups and squats to keep from going insane, and both of them were in close to the best shape of their lives. If only their sanity had fared as well as their muscles. Inviting Billie to Reap them had been a desperate move. 

No hunter was free of nightmares, but Lucifer’s rage ran deep through Sam’s psyche—too deep for Cas to entirely heal. Sam’s dreams twisted and ran dark given the smallest chance, keeping him too many nights awake and shaking.

He knew Dean had his own mental kaleidoscopes of Hell, of course. Sam had seen him restlessly avoiding his bed enough times. But in the Bunker it helped both of them to be able to get up and wander around—to feel safe from attack, and free to leave at the same time. The last six weeks, having only the options to roll over or to get up and pace two steps, wall to wall—it sucked, and Sam was left irritable, drowsy, or both during the day.

Letting the soldiers take them back into that concrete box was not an option. Sam thought he might let them shoot him first, even having told Cas where they were. But they weren’t going to murder the soldiers after them, either. It wasn’t their fault the Winchesters looked like bad guys. 

“Should we hide our trail?”

“Nah,” Dean said, slowing. _Time to walk._ “They’ll catch up to us today. And when they do, I want them to think we’re running scared and stupid.”

Sam nodded, seeing the reason. “If they lose our trail, they’re likely to call in more boots on the ground. And that’ll make it harder once they _do_ catch up.”

“I’m gonna be way too tempted to kill Lickspittle, if I see him, as it is.” 

“Lickspittle?” Sam frowned. “Who…?”

“You know, the guy in charge when we got arrested. Head of the President’s detail, wants us dead.”

Sam shook his head. “How do you know he wants us dead?”

“I could see the look in his eyes, Sammy. I know that look.”

“Not enough evidence to kill him.”

Dean blew out a breath. “Hey, a little premature death never hurt nobody.” 

Sam huffed so Dean would know he wasn’t funny. That was the other reason being captured again was unthinkable: the cost they’d bound themselves to pay for getting this far. They had until midnight to decide which of them to sacrifice for Billie’s demanded payment.

Sam had no intention of letting Dean die. Forget playing fair—he’d happily give Billie his own life, when it came down to it. Problem was, sure as the sun rose in the morning Dean was thinking the same thing. He’d probably been plotting how he could get Billie to take him first since before they'd started. 

Premature death was bookending their day. Light death nap (thanks, Billie) in the morning, and at midnight the promised permanent one. It scared Sam how desperate Dean must have gotten, to think up that deal. 

His brother needed to move, to annoy people or charm them, to hunt and help. He’d never been forced into inactivity for so long. Dean could stake out a target all night and day with a hunter’s patience, but when that tank ran dry, Sam knew to watch out. Any action, no matter how rash, was better than no action.

Sam wasn’t doing great, between night terrors and worrying about Dean, but he could’ve endured. But could Dean? It was hard to know if the deal was the right move, but in the end, Sam had agreed. No going back.

Sam breathed deep, appreciating the fresh forest air. One problem at a time, and the first problem was getting through the woods. Highway 34 lay to the north, and Cas would look for them there. Dean scanned the woods restlessly, but his eyes kept flicking to the horizon. North. 

It wasn’t yet time to run, but Sam broke back into a jog.

* * *

The men on their trail were too disciplined to shout, but mid-afternoon, voices began carrying on the wind at their backs. Sam and Dean exchanged glances and kept the pace up. But Sam noticed that Dean started to look for higher ground. He didn’t slow down for the first two ridges—not enough cover—but finally a creek crossing offered a steep but wooded slope, with good cover beyond as the land dropped away again. 

They hiked up from the creek—the grade was steep enough to slow them down.

“They’re maybe half an hour behind us, if that,” Dean muttered. The military were closing the distance now fast, loping downhill to the creek while Sam and Dean toiled uphill. But the distance would widen again when Sam and Dean ran downhill, while the soldiers climbed slower up the ridge behind them. They could use this terrain to get eyes on their pursuers without their lead changing much in the long run.

But if they were spotted, the soldiers could push themselves to a sprint, and probably catch up before Sam and Dean could get out of range again. Sam thanked their jailors for providing them with dull grayish jumpsuits, at least—orange would have stuck out like a flag. 

Dean eyed the top of the ridge critically as they ascended, looking for what angles were covered by vegetation and how well. Nearly at the top of the ridge, he melted into the brush so easily that Sam blinked. Dad had never taught them that level of woodskill—the basics, sure, how to start a fire and keep going the same direction, but Sacajawea, they were not. 

“Hst.” Dean waved sharply for Sam to get his head down, and Sam ducked behind a tree right before the first of the squad hunting them emerged from the woods by the creek below them. More of them could be seen in flashes through the trees, getting clearer as they came.

“Looks like a small team,” Sam whispered finally. “Less than ten.”

“Four-man team, plus two bigwigs,” Dean said. “No, there’s a fifth grunt. Seven total.”

Sam squinted through the branches concealing him. His position was higher, but leaves made it impossible to see unless he got close to the ground, like Dean had.

“All for little old us,” Dean mocked softly. Yeah, he was bitter about being locked up. He eeled backwards, barely rustling, until the ridge interrupted the sightline. 

It was tempting to rest here, but Sam ignored the growing blister from his prisoner-standard boots and crawled after Dean. Miles to go, and seven men to put the fear of God into on the way.

Or at least the fear of Winchesters. Being kept in a cell like some common criminal was infuriating. Asked to talk, explain—as if anyone would believe a word of it. They thought Sam and Dean had been trying to kill the President, but the President himself damn well knew better. It was probably politically difficult to admit to letting Lucifer possess you. 

If Sam and Dean _had_ been trying to kill the President, they wouldn’t have _failed._ And now this was his last day with his brother, or likely to be. Sam checked behind him to be sure the men were out of sight, and stood up. 

Winchesters played the hands they were dealt.

“You coming, or what?” Dean had paused. “Keep an eye out for trails.”

Sam shook himself out and followed.

* * *

One of the men scouted ahead. Smart practice, but a mistake now. He was easy to choke out cold on the forest floor, and then Sam and Dean had a rifle and a radio.

Dean blustered at Lickspittle over the radio, but that wasn’t going to dissuade them. Onward. Sam cursed the lack of room to pace for the last six weeks as his calves and quads ached and his breath got heavier. One foot, then the other. His toenails needed trimming badly, no thanks to the Feds, and every step, now, they felt like coming off. 

Running wasn’t going to be the thing that killed him today, but if he was going to die, he’d do it on his own terms. It beat living forever in a cage again.

They were both soaked in sweat, panting in time as they ran. Tempting, when tired, to step sloppy, jam their feet down hard, but the wear and tear wasn’t worth it on a long run. And anyway, it would be noisier. Sam had made it a point to work on a hunter’s light tread, when he outgrew Dean and Dad and got self-conscious about clomping around like a clumsy teenager. Lots of monsters had better-than-average hearing, and Sam still managed to surprise them sometimes.

But Dean—Dean only made noise when he _wanted_ to make noise, Sam was getting convinced. Dean hadn’t always been like this in the woods, not when they’d hunted wendigos or even that feral park ranger in the turducken case. But the turducken case was before Dean killed the head Leviathan and spent a year in Purgatory.

Now he moved like a predator, scanning the forest around them for any sign of life. Squirrels, rabbits, songbirds...all noted and dismissed quick as thought. Three deer crossed their path once, and Dean crouched instinctively—then stood up and shook himself, chuckling, while Sam stared.

“Thinking about dinner?” Sam asked.

“Purgatory had carnivorous deer,” Dean shot back as the three animals bounded away. Sam wished he could cover ground that freely. “I saw one bite off a vampire’s arm once.” 

“A lot of Native Amercan tribes tell stories of the Deer Woman,” Sam offered, rather than get awkward over Purgatory. “She appears as either a deer or a sexy lady with hooves. Sometimes lures promiscuous young men to their deaths.”

“Yeah, well, any deer will eat meat if they can get it,” Dean didn’t slacken the pace. “Don’t trust them, Sammy.”

“I’d eat those deer first, I got so sick of jailhouse slop.”

Dean nodded at the rifle in Sam’s hands. “If we weren’t on the clock…”

“Yeah.” Sam glanced back at the trail behind them.

* * *

They found a trail, maybe wide enough for a truck fifty years ago, but now overgrown, barely passable to a four-wheeler. Sam grunted, Dean nodded—they took the trail. “We can hope there’s a cabin,” Dean said. “Those ridges have been shaped by a stream. See where it gets greener?”

Sam raised his brow—Dean seldom bothered explaining things. Unless he was planning on dying, and figured Sam would need to know how to keep up the car. “I see it.”

The sun set while they stuck to the trail, but Dean was right. The cabin hunkered in a defensible cleared space, old and gray and solid.

Winchesters knew the business of digging into forgotten dusty corners. An old cabin like this was a gold mine for anybody set on booby-trapping the hell out of a place. 

“Those sons of bitches are going to have a very bad day when they get here,” Dean said, carefully turning the bear trap over in his hands. 

“They should consider themselves lucky, considering how much effort we’re putting into not killing them,” Sam said, reaching up to the rafters to truss the rifle in place.

“I’m not expecting any gift baskets.” Dean headed outside. Divide and conquer. This was old familiar ground, turning the tables on whomever was following them; like sliding into familiar dance steps, comfortable enough to improvise without missing a beat.

Sam didn’t think Dean would try to die early, to make sure Billie took him; Dean would want every minute of this last day together, too. Sam was pretty sure.

Only ten, maybe fifteen minutes now. Dean had pulled a bunch of dry branches over the trail, to make noise when their pursuers came through. They’d be able to get by quietly if they worked at it, but it would slow them down. 

Growing up with John Winchester meant knowing exactly how to rig a rifle so that the trigger pulled when the door opened. Aimed low, of course; not deadly. Not unless the soldiers crawled into the cabin on their bellies. 

Sam rearranged a couple things so that he’d be overlooked by anybody entering, set up a sheet on a pull-cord between the lamp and the window, and settled into position. When he tugged the cord, it would look from the outside like people moving carelessly around inside, as if Sam and Dean were idiots who thought they were safe. He didn’t know if the country’s best and brightest would fall for it, but...when Sam was younger, he used to worry about bait being too obvious. Over the years, he’d found that, like dropping a bare hook in the water and getting a fish, monsters never expected to be lured, not when they were sure they were the biggest and strongest. He tugged the sheet once to test it, and waited.

Sam had _hated_ being locked up. No books, no internet...and no communication with Dean, not even to know if he was alright, or if they’d just taken him out back and shot him, like a crooked cop had almost done in Baltimore once. It drove Sam crazy, wondering.

But not as crazy as Dean had to have been going, assuming they were keeping him in a cell like Sam’s. Sam could wander the reference library in his head when he got bored, outline a lorebook on demons he wanted to write; but...at least when he was in Hell, Dean had been able to amuse himself cracking dumb jokes at Alastair. Concrete walls not only didn’t laugh, they didn’t ever have to _try_ not to laugh.

He couldn’t hear Dean setting up his own ambushes outside. Sam dug nails into his palm. Dean was fine. Sam eyed the spot on the wall that had held the vicious old bear trap. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

It had felt _good_ to choke out the scout. What did this stranger know, coming after them like they’d forfeited their right to live? Sam hadn’t wanted to kill him, exactly...but he had wished his arms were around a real monster, instead. Someone whose neck he could snap with just a twist more pressure—there, and call it a job well done. 

Sam’s thoughts cut off at rustling sounds as men came through the brush laid on the trail. Even with his ears tuned, he couldn’t hear them mutter to each other as they assessed the cabin, but they had to be looking at it. If Sam had wanted to, he could’ve sat by the window and shot a couple of them dead before the others retreated. 

Instead, he pulled at his rigged-up sheet so the shadow crossed the flickering kerosene lamp.

Falling for the easy bait was often a monster’s last mistake, thanks to him and his brother. But these men would have a chance to learn from it, if they came in too fast and hard like Sam hoped. They should be cautious, when their dangerous criminals had had time to prepare, but they didn’t have time to wait them out. For all they knew, only one of the brothers was inside the cabin with the lamp, and the other had passed by and was still heading to the highway.

No; they’d come in. They hadn’t chased escapees all day to slow down now. Sam appreciated again Dean’s strategy of running long and straight: these men hadn’t learned to be wary.

When the door opened, Sam was ready, but the man stepped forward and the rifle fired as he’d set it to do. The man crumpled and yelled, shot in the foot, down so fast that Sam was glad the rifle was short-burst. Dropping was only a good tactic when the enemy aimed _high._ Plus, the soldier had dropped his weapon. Sam weighed revealing himself to grab it, but didn’t want to give up the surprise against the next man in. Once they were in close quarters, no one would risk a shot in the dark that might hit their teammate.

Outside, Dean’s attack was near-silent, especially with gunfire and the first man’s screams still ringing in Sam’s ears—but Sam heard the second soldier’s groan and knew Dean had been just as effective. Knives were versatile. 

A third man showed in the doorway, took one look at Sam’s suggestively tipped-over table, and blew it full of bullet holes. Sam smirked. In the silence that followed, he could hear the _thump_ of Dean throwing Number Four against the side of the cabin. Then Three was on top of his real hiding place. 

The solid thud of Sam’s fist and elbow hitting flesh was satisfying, and the man was down. It was sooner than Sam wanted to stop hitting him. He stared down at the two of them: one out cold, just now, and the other on his back, foot still bleeding, panting. Sam stared him down in case he tried to reach for his weapon, but they were no threat anymore; suddenly they seemed very young. Naively crashing around in the woods, playing at being big manly men with their guns. Sam sighed. Even if they’d been fifty, they would have seemed young. 

Hunt or be hunted, and usually both. It had been most of his life. He dropped the first aid kit on the bleeding soldier’s chest and grabbed his rifle. “You’ll live.”

Whether Sam did tonight, or not. He walked out the door. Dean was clearly pleased at having caught Lickspittle in the bear trap, and Sam was just in time to point the rifle at the other leader, the old one, who’d told them he was leaving them alone in the dark until they _wanted to talk._ ”Camp,” Lickspittle called him.

“You want the truth?” Sam asked Camp. The Secret Service had no business hunting Sam and Dean. Now half their team couldn’t walk, because they wouldn’t stop barking up the wrong tree. The smoldering corpse of Sam’s anger refused to die down. 

There was a lot of blood laid up at Sam’s door, both that he’d shed and that he’d covered up. Dean’s, too; mostly, it just came with a hunter’s job. But now he was supposed to take the blame for Lucifer, _again?_ “The President was _possessed._ By the Devil.”

“Now, you can take that and do what you want with it,” Dean picked up. Sam wanted to hammer it home more; all Dean cared about was—”But you know what’ll happen if you come after us again.”

Leaving on live-and-let-live terms with cops or FBI was valuable in their line of work. Maybe Dean was right: the important truth wasn’t what they’d done, or why, but…

“Who _are_ you guys?” Camp called out, plaintively. They were disarmed, most of them in no shape to walk. Sure, they could call backup, but by the time it arrived, Sam and Dean would be to the highway, free and clear. River Jordan to the promised land.

They turned, in sync, and continued north. “We’re the guys who save the world,” Sam said. 

Only a couple hours to midnight, and if Cas didn’t make it, those men could be the last people to see them both alive. Sam hoped it would be memorable, at least.

* * *

Comfortable silence held until the cabin fell into the distance behind them. They couldn’t run anymore, even if they weren’t aching and sore. With no trail and little moonlight, avoiding roots and branches occupied their attention even at a slow walk. Sam used the light attached to the second rifle he’d appropriated, but Dean still had an easier time navigating, it seemed. He studied his brother’s motions for a while, mostly so he could follow without tripping.

“You could have lost them anytime you felt like it,” Sam said finally. “When I asked about hiding our trail…”

“Maybe,” said Dean. “Tricky if they’d brought dogs.”

“But not that hard,” Sam pushed, more certain.

“Yeah, okay, I could’ve,” Dean said. “Double back across a creek a few times, get up onto bare rock on one of those mountains, lay a false trail—I used all that stuff in Purgatory.”

“You wanted to confront them.”

“They wouldn’t have stopped chasing us all the way back to Kansas,” Dean said. “Didn’t want one more manhunt all over the airwaves. Now they’ll think again.”

“Okay, but…” Sam wished he could see Dean’s expression instead of just his back. “That’s not all. You enjoyed beating them up, showing them not to mess with us.” 

“Yeah. So, is that a crime?” Dean shot back. “This isn’t Mark of Cain bullshit. I wanted us to have a good last day together. You had fun, too, right?”

Sam huffed. “I guess.” Yeah, he’d enjoyed taking them down. Every time his meal tray clacked in through his cell door, he’d fantasized about what he could do if one of the men would only come in, let him reach.

Dean let it sit a minute. “Not knowing you were okay, and not being able to do anything, that’s not me. That’s never been me.”

“So you’re thinking you’d rather sit in the Empty and do nothing?”

“If I can get you out of here, get you safe first? Yeah.”

“I was okay, mostly,” Sam said. “More worried about you than anything. It should be me that goes to the Empty.”

“ _Should,_ ’” Dean scoffed darkly. “I should have died a long time ago, and stayed dead. Maybe we both should have, Sam.”

“We’re alive now.” Sam felt his next step forward out carefully, uncertain of the ground.

“How long do we keep going for?” Dean asked. “When does it end?”

“Lucifer’s gone,” Sam said. “But he created a nephilim. Whose problem is that, if not ours?”

“It’s a trainwreck of problems that never ends,” Dean argued. “Are we really doing any good?”

“So you want to give up?”

“Of course I want to give up!” Dean burst out. “If I’d thought I could give up without making everything _worse,_ I’d have done it years ago.”

Sam wanted to unpack that more, but they didn’t have _time._ “You’re depressed,” he said instead, hoping if he sounded certain enough Dean would believe it. “Too much isolation.”

“I am _not…_ ” Dean said, and stopped himself. With an effort, he redirected. “I wanted to get you free of that place.”

“And leave me to clean up Lucifer’s mess, _again?_ Alone?” Sam heaved a hurt breath. He knew it was a low blow, and he didn’t care. This wasn’t about fighting fair. 

Dean flinched and didn’t say anything. 

“I think we both know you have a better chance of pulling me out of the Empty than I do you,” Sam said. “Considering, you know, track records.”

Dean navigated around a hollow that Sam wouldn’t have even seen. “You’re too smart to be such an optimist, Sammy.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam half-grinned. “I learned it from you.” 

“What if I can’t?” Dean said, so quietly Sam almost missed it. “If I can’t get you out?”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam said. “Nothingness isn’t as bad as hell.” He saw Dean set his jaw. “Not for me. Really. Help other hunters. Write my demonology book for me.”

Dean threw him an outraged look, and Sam grinned. 

It wouldn’t do any good to push more now. Dean had to chew over what he’d said. The game wasn’t over yet; come midnight, he’d find out if the cards he’d played were enough for a winning hand.

 _Country roads, take me home…_ He tried to shake the tune out of his head. Maybe Billie could be talked into singing a little, on the way to the Empty. She had a gorgeous voice. Peace, being done, there were worse things. Sam was sure of that.

* * *

Cas found them before they reached the highway, standing in their path in the middle of the woods. Cas and Mom both. Sam had seldom been so glad to hug anybody; he’d started to wonder if midnight and Billie's arrival would find them still deep in the woods. 

It seemed they’d cooperated with the British Men of Letters to find them. Heat-sensing satellites; who knew. Sam wondered if someone had to sit and stare at the maps for hours to filter out all the deer. But they said goodbye to the Brits quickly; midnight was approaching fast, and tonight was no time for strangers.

Mary had driven. One last car ride, then, the four of them together. Baby would have been nice, but Sam supposed no one got everything. 

Too soon, the electronics of the modern car flickered out and they rolled to a stop. His mom and Cas were confused, but Sam and Dean knew immediately. “It’s time.”

A dark figure appeared in the road ahead as they got out of the car.

“Billie?” Mary asked. How could Sam and Dean explain the choice they’d made?

They tried. Sam’s fears were confirmed when Dean said his solitary confinement was worse than Hell. The Empty was solitary confinement without end; Sam knew Dean should agree to let him go, but would he?

Billie could have been made of stone. “So who’s it gonna be?”

Sam looked at Dean, and for one last miracle, Dean looked back at him, instead of speaking up. But that hesitation was all it took.

“Me,” said Mary. “I’m a Winchester.” 

“No,” Sam protested.

“Don’t,” from Dean, but it was too late. Too late for anything but— 

Light speared through Billie’s chest, from the angel blade Cas jammed into her from behind.

They stared. “Cas, what have you done?” Dean asked.

Sam had never seen Cas on a real emotional tirade before, but he gave them one now. “I _will not_ let you die, I won’t let _any_ of you die. ...Yeah, you made a deal. You made a _stupid_ deal, and I broke it. _You’re welcome_.”

What was there to say to that? They were off the hook, freer than they should have been. So why did Sam feel so heavy?

* * *

Months later, Sam stared at a British Men Of Letters report. _Cleaned up the Winchester’s mess._ Ketch—friendly, dangerous, we-can-borrow-a-satellite-Ketch—had killed every one of the people Sam and Dean had taken so much care to leave alive. Seven, no—ten people dead, that Sam hadn’t even known needed saving. He felt sick. He and Dean were both still alive, while Billie was dead, Lickspittle was dead, Camp and all his people were dead. 

And all those murders laid at the Winchesters’ doors, _again_. “Dean, you need to see this,” Sam called. “Ketch and the rest of those Brits aren’t dead and damned enough.”

“What?” Dean came up from the hallway to the garage. “Mom already shot him in the head. I got rid of the body. What else is there?”

“He took out the entire base in Colorado, that’s what.” Sam said. “Everyone we knew there got their throats slit the night we escaped.”

“Son of a _hellhound_ bitch.” Dean paced. “And if we’d asked him about it, he’d say he was just following orders.” He whirled back to face Sam. “Is it enough to kick those assholes out of America? How many bosses up the line do they have?”

“They’re like a branch of government,” Sam said, digging his fingers into his brow. “One without any oversight.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Better check if their souls are still whole.”

“Some of the spells we’ve found here did use soul energy,” Dean said. “If they’ve used too much of that stuff, especially the higher-ups, that could explain a lot.”

“So what, you want to chase them onto their turf now?” Sam asked doubtfully. “Cross the ocean?”

“Not _now_ ,” Dean said. “Obviously we’ve got Lucifer’s kid to worry about first. But if we have time, later.”

Sam, Mary, and Cas had all believed in Dean too much to let him die. Sam guessed Dean, Mary, and Cas all thought that way about him, too, but trying to apply it to himself was hard. His mind didn’t want to believe it. But Cas had said the world needed them.

“Fuck,” said Sam. 

There was always so much work to be done.


End file.
